I'm a tea jenny. I like to have a cup of mint tea in bed before I go to sleep. It's become something of a ritual, and I now cannot sleep unless I have a cup of sencha green tea with natural mint and a chapter or so of my book. Conversation between Hubby and I last night:

Me: You made my tea too strong.Hubby: Sorry.Me: It's the colour of wee.Hubby: What colour should it be? The colour of a watery wee?Me: Yes! That's absolutely the colour it should be! The kind of wee you do after you drink 2 pints of water.Hubby: Or six pints of beer?Me (ignoring previous comment): I find that 4 or 5 dunks of the teabag is sufficient.Hubby (sleepily): 4 or 5 dunks, gotcha.Me: 4 or 5 good dunks though, with the bag fully immersed in the water.Hubby: Can I go to sleep now?Me: And if you could give the bag a wee shake before you dunk that would be lovely, just to get rid of the tea-dust, because it all sinks to the bottom of the cup, and I can't drink the last mouthful.Hubby: So that's Point 11 of Teeny's Guide To The Perfect Cup Of Tea. I shall make a note of it.Me: Well, I'm just telling you this so that you know for the next time. We're married now, so you're going to be making me lots of cup of tea in the years to come.Hubby: [snore]

I saw a man on a bike this morning on my way to work. This in itself isn't unusual. What is unusual is that he was not appropriately dressed for the cold and heavy rain, and was soaked to the skin.

He was also cycling along at a leisurely pace (in rush hour traffic in central Edinburgh) whistling 'Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life'. For no obvious reason, he looked like he had his own personal little patch of sunlight, filled with rainbows and unicorns.

Maybe he just won the lottery. Maybe he got laid last night. Maybe he had just escaped from a secure unit somewhere and thought he was in the Canary Islands. Or maybe he was just enjoying his morning cycle in the rain.

Who knows, but it was a nice change from the usual grumpy commuters I see every other morning, and he brought a smile to my face. Which is an amazing feat before 9am.

Can it really be the 12th November already? I've had half a post written for about three weeks now, but I haven't been able to find the time or, more importantly, the words, to finish it off. It should've been easy, seen as it was all about my honeymoon, but I'm going through a bit of a dry spell, blogging wise. And that's probably a good thing, as I probably would have come off sounding smug and pissed everyone off. You can click on my Flickr badge for the photos if you like, and if I get round to finishing that post without sounding like one of those people you dread sitting down next to you at a party because you just know they're going to bend your ear with stories that start 'when I was in [insert exotic location here]' I'll publish it.

But just now I do have something to say, because tomorrow is the second anniversary of my dad's death. On this day two years ago, Hubby and I had a horrible falling out about the amount of time that we were spending with each other's family (i.e. we both wanted to spend more time with our respective parentals). Him, naturally and completely rightly, because his father had passed away six months earlier. Me because seeing Hubby's father dying of cancer had made me realise how lucky I was, and want to cling onto my own family while they were all alive and healthy. The following day, before we made it out to see them, my dad had the heart attack that killed him.

Ever since then, although I miss my dad terribly, I have tried really, really hard to keep thanking god, or whatever higher power made me, that I still have an amazing husband and family, and that they're all healthy and happy(ish). It's so difficult juggling our mothers (not literally thankfully, that WOULD be difficult), and we still can't believe the situation we're now in - both our mothers widowed before they're 60 - but it is how it is, and if my dad were here he would tell me things could be worse, and that I should stay positive. And he's right - there's no point dwelling.